


Shadow of the Sun

by tapsters



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-02 15:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4064911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tapsters/pseuds/tapsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our intrepid Dragonborn stumbles upon the Imperial ambush of Ulfric and his Stormcloaks while on her way to Morrowind. She decides to stick around to help out an old friend and has to deal with the fall out of loving a man who thinks she's only good enough for him when she's killing Imperials.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd and slightly polished so you'll have to forgive any mistakes.

The sun was shining the day Vivyne was supposed to die. It had all seemed fated by the Divines; the ambush, the clashing swords and guttural cries of dying men. Vivyne, unlucky woman that she was, had simply been passing through, on her way to Morrowind and an uncertain future. She’d seen the flash of red, the metallic clang of silver as swords met and old enemies traded fresh blows. It was instinct, hard in her chest like a stone, that drove her into the battle. Make the Imperials bleed, red like their uniforms. It’d been drilled into her head like a mantra. She’d cut down three Imperials long before they’d caught her, striking her hard across the neck with the hilt of a blade. The last thing she saw before the darkness crept into her vision was Ulfric, on his knees and the strip of cloth tied around his mouth so tight, it would bruise. 

She woke uneasily, the sun burning hotly against the back of her head and was greeted with the unfamiliar smile of a Stormcloak. “You’re finally awake,” he said in his Nordish drawl and Vivyne tried to blinked away the weariness so she could see him properly. Her neck ached and she rolled her head from side to side to relieve it. Her hands were tied tightly, the rope cutting smartly into her wrists. She wiped her eyes the best she could and finally gave the wagon ambling down the cobbled path a once over. She was surrounded by Stormcloaks and a frightened Nord in rough-spun clothes, too skinny to be of any use. A distraction, perhaps, but a liability in an actual fight. Another Imperial brought up the rear and escape seemed almost improbable. Not an impossibility, mind, if she was clever about it. But she wouldn’t escape unscathed. She imagined an arrow or two stuck in her hide, as she fled into Skyrim’s thick green foliage and steeled herself. She’d endured worse.

Beside her, was Ulfric Stormcloak himself, bound and gagged, but looking no worse for the wear. His men had seen to that. She met his gaze and held it steadily, unflinching. He didn’t remember her. It was better that he didn’t. When she looked away, Vivyne focused on the man who’d greeted her when she woke. “Where are we going?” She asked.

“Dunno where,” he said and stretched a stiff leg out to rest on the bench just by her thigh. “What I do know is Sovngarde waits, though.”

Vivyne scoffed and cast a sideways glance to her right. Ulfric was still staring at her, though his eyes were unreadable. She rolled her shoulder and looked back to the Stormcloak soldier. “Trouble follows you Stormcloaks like a stink,” she said and made it a point to glance at Ulfric. He didn’t seem troubled by the assessment.

The man across from her chuckled. “Maybe it does,” he said, “But if it means Skyrim’s free, I’ll deal with the smell.” He wiggled his toes in his boot then looked at their silent companion, “So where are you from, horse thief?” 

“What do you care?” he demanded, his voice shrill. Vivyne slouched back and tried not to think of Ulfric and his unwavering gaze.

“Because a Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.” 

“Rorikstead,” he replied after a beat of silence, “I’m from Rorikstead.” 

Vivyne knew the place, had seen it on enough maps to picture the location in her mind had nearly taken work there, if she hadn’t decided to return to Morrowind instead. If she hadn’t---

“What are you staring at?” She demanded, and turned her dark red eyes on the great bear of a man sitting next to her. Her voice rumbled deep in her chest and Vivyne felt like a fool because he smiled behind his gag. 

“Shut up back there!” 

They fell into silence and Vivyne supposed it did not matter. Ulfric did not know her and even if he did, well, she would deny her identity. Dunmer all looked alike to Nords. He wouldn’t be able to tell her from any other of her kind.

The cart rambled its way through the front gates of a sleepy town and the man across from Vivyne sat up. “Helgen,” he said, “I used to be sweet on a girl from Helgen.” He seemed wistful, nostalgic for a time long past and Vivyne wondered how life must’ve been easy and carefree for him. Better than her own, she thought and swallowed the bitterness on her tongue. 

The cart stopped and they stood, single file to hop off and march neatly to their deaths. “I don’t know your name,” Vivyne whispered as the horse thief and Killer of Kings went first. 

“Ralof,” he replied and landed on the ground in a cloud of dust.

The commotion that followed their introduction delayed Vivyne’s date with destiny. Their horse thief, feeling brave or stupid - Vivyne never decided which - ran. “Stop him!” The Captain cried and her archers leaped to action. Lokir, the Imperial had called him, died unceremoniously, with an arrow in his neck.

“You're next, prisoner,” the Imperial said and watched her with sympathetic eyes as she jumped from the cart and stood up straight. His pity tightened her chest and she thought for a moment she might spit in his eyes. She was already going to die today - while the sun was shining and the breeze was warm on her cheeks - what did she have to lose? “Who are you?” he said and looked down at the list of names on his parchment. 

“Vivyne,” she replied and felt Ulfric’s gaze on her again. If he did not remember her on the cart, he surely did now. She squared her shoulders and stared at the Imperial instead.

“Captain, what should we do? She’s not on the list.” 

“Forget the list. She killed some of ours. She goes to the block.” Vivyne eyed the woman who’d sealed her fate. She looked fierce under her helmet, age lines creasing the corners of her mouth and crinkling her eyes. Maybe she’d retire after today. She’d seen to the death of the rebel Stormcloaks and this dark elf who’d killed three of her men before they could even properly subdue her. That seemed like a good end to a promising career. 

“By your orders, Captain.” The Imperial smiled at Vivyne sadly and nodded toward the block. “I’m sorry,” he said, “We’ll make sure to send your remains to Morrowind.”

“Keep your sympathy,” she said and spit at his face as another Imperial grabbed her by her binds and led her to where the Stormcloak rebels waited. Whether or not she had found her mark, Vivyne was not sure. But she was satisfied. Defiant to the end. No weakness in her armor. Fedris would be proud. Above them, there was a distant cry. Everyone looked, searching the blue skies for the source. Several beats passed, breath held and when nothing happened, the execution proceeded.

The first Stormcloak died with an obstinate gleam in his eye. He would meet his ancestors with no regrets and in a way Vivyne envied him. She wished she could do the same.

“The dark elf next,” the captain said and pointed a finger at her. Vivyne gave Ulfric one last look and she could see it at last; the spark of recognition in his narrow eyes as they followed her to the executioner’s block. 

Vivyne was forced to kneel, and a boot in her back set her head squarely in the block. She felt the rush of wind as the ax was hoisted up. The cry came again, piercing and close. 

“Dragon!” 

Vivyne twisted in the block, the rough wood cutting into her chin as the dragon landed, a great black thing sitting atop the watchtower above them. It opened its wide jaws and instead of spewing fire, it screamed at them. “FUS RO DAH!” 

The executioner crumpled under the weight of the magic – was it magic? - dead on the ground in a broken heap. Vivyne pushed herself up. “Vivyne!” She heard through the cries of the beast flying overhead. “Let’s go!”

Ralof grabbed her up by the swell of her arm, yanking her by the binds at her wrists toward a burning stone building. Her lungs burned and she stumbled but caught herself before she fell. Stormcloaks lay bleeding in the straw lining the hard floor and beside the door, was Ulfric, of course. Unscathed as always. Vivyne considered him only long enough to note that he lived before she began running up the stairs, stopping at the collapse in the stairwell and feeling useless as the soldier rushed to clear it. His efforts, though noble, were in vain. The wall crumbled under the dragon’s cries and crushed the Stormcloak in a cloud of rubble and smoke. The dragon breathed fire upon them, and Vivyne felt the stray flames grabbing at her tunic like fingers and singeing her toes. She leaped back and nearly collided with Ralof. 

When the dragon lost interest, Ralof helped her to her feet. Despite his intent, the dragon had given them a way out. She would be grateful later. Ralof pointed over her shoulder, beyond her. An inn only a jump away from them. “Go,” he said, “I’m right behind you!”

Whether he was or not, Vivyne did not know nor did she care. The sun was still shining through the thick black smoke and as Vivyne jumped and prayed Azura would carry her, she could not help but think that was a good omen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrested in the streets of Windhelm, Vivyne and Ulfric reunite.

Snow was the bane of Vivyne’s existence.

Winter time in Windhelm (was there ever any other time?) was near unbearable and how the Nords survived this bitter, unforgiving cold was a mystery yet to be solved. Still, it was here that Ulfric made his home and so it was here that Vivyne dropped from the carriage’s wagon, leather boots sinking shin deep in the snow. She pushed forward with no small amount of struggling and handed the driver a pouch of coins. One hundred septims to carry her from Whiterun to Windhelm. She was tempted to buy a horse and save herself the bit of coin hiring a wagon stole. “It’ll be more,” the driver said, while he chewed on a wheat stalk and looked her up and down, “Cause it’s wintertime. Snow’s mighty deep in Windhelm.”

She’d decided she had neither the time nor the patience to care for a horse and paid the man his septims. At least he had the courtesy not to count it in front of her. He waited until she cleared the first set of stairs leading into the high archway of the bridge and city proper. Below her, she saw the dockworkers - Argonian, of course - carrying out their daily affairs. Back and forth they scurried about, carrying their wares and shoring up Windhelm’s foundations, and with no appreciation for their efforts. Vivyne tsk’d under her breath and continued on her way to the front gates of the city. 

They opened for her and she slipped inside. She would warm herself first. Food and drink at the inn. Ulfric would have to wait.

It was near the Candlehearth Hall that she spied them. The Nords blocking the path of a Dunmeri woman Vivyne had never met. 

“Let me pass,” the woman said.

“Maybe we ought to pay you a visit in the Gray Quarter, little spy,” a Nord said, his accent as heavy as the snowfall, and he stepped in close, “we’ve got ways of figuring out what you really are.” 

Vivyne waited. A guard passed by the scene and did nothing. Another followed. She forgot the ache in her bones when a third guard passed them by and the Nords continued unchecked. With a sigh, she slinked up to them and pushed the man back with a small hand against his chest. Gently, mind. He had time to right himself before he fell. 

“Enough,” she said, “She’s done nothing to either of you, let her be.” 

“Look at this, Angrenor. They’re ganging up on us.” He snorted then spit in the snow, “You going to stop me then, little elf?” 

Vivyne licked her lips but said nothing. She watched the Nord curl his fists. There’d be a brawl. She’d challenged him, wounded his pride. For Nords that was as good as insulting their mother. He wouldn’t let this gray-skin show him up. 

“Fine, you want to fight for her, then fight.” 

The Nord lunged, a wild fist aimed for her face. He was sluggish, slow (too much mead and not enough grace) and Vivyne slipped from his path, dipping low and aimed her blow at his gut. She heard the wind leave his lungs in a shuddery breath and she punched again. One more and she would crack his ribs. Distantly, she heard a call for the guards, heard the jangle of their armor as they made a dash through the city, undeterred by the snow nor the gathered looky-loos. 

Her opponent shoved her back, gripped his ribs - hurting but not quite cracked - and snarled at her. He would lunge for her again. But his aching, mead soaked body slowed him and that rib would be cracked. She was ready, stance firm despite the ice. 

But there would be no third blow. The guards burst between them, seeing to the Nord nursing his wounds while drawing their blade on Vivyne. Her blood red eyes flicked from the injured man to the guard and she put her hands up. 

“He started it,” she said and shrugged.

The guard was unimpressed. “And we’re here to finish it. Let’s go.” 

With a sudden fit of deja vu, Vivyne did as she was told and followed the guard into the dark depths of the Palace of Kings. Shoved into a cell, Vivyne collided with the wall on the far side. A skeleton chattered at her from its bonds and she made a face. She hoped that woman would not be blamed for the fight. Vivyne should not have interfered; Fedris would have told her that much. But it would’ve been bad form to let the woman endure harassment with no one to speak up for her. Vivyne could only look the other way so many times before her patience exhausted.

For two days, Vivyne stayed in her cell. The guards ignored her, and she did not eat the meager fair they offered by way of food. 

On the third day, she had a visitor. 

She emerged from the shadow of her cell when her visitor stopped and blocked what little illumination filtered through from the candles. A great bear of man he was. He had to duck when he entered a room or suffer a bump to his head. And there he stood, dressed in his Stormcloak blues smiling at her as if she were a jester. “Brawling in my streets,” Ulfric said and tsk’d, “Aren’t you above petty bar fights, Vivyne?” 

She stopped shy of the cell’s door and tilted her head up so she could see Ulfric properly. He looked well enough for a man who’d escaped death twice over. “Keep your Nords in line then,” she replied. 

Ulfric snorted. “They were drunk and having a bit of fun. You wouldn’t begrudge a man that, would you?” 

“Of course not. Had they kept their fun in its place. Harass the wenches in a brothel. They're paid to put up with them. Not a woman in the street minding her own business.”

Ulfric chuckled and hailed a passing guard. “Ingrid, release her.” 

Thankful for the helm so that Ulfric might not see her distaste, Ingrid slid the key into the cell and unlocked the door. “Now to feed you and clothe you proper.”

She followed him into the warmth of the palace, grateful for the fire burning in a nearby hearth. “Why are you here, Vivyne?” Ulfric asked.

“To join your rebellion,” she said. 

Ulfric laughed, heartily from his belly and poured warm water into the wooden tub at the room's center. “You're an elf. Do you really think you belong here?” 

Vivyne said nothing for a moment as she tested the waters with a finger. Warm enough, she thought and untied the rope holding the rough-spun tunic cinched around her waist. 

She knew the Nords would have a hard time accepting her. She was not naive. Morrowind was closer than ever. When she'd hired the driver back in Whiterun, it had been her intention, honest and true, to cross the border and let Ulfric sort out his troubles himself. But, he was a friend, and Vivyne was never one to leave a friend in a bind. 

“The Imperials are closer than you think, Stormcloak,” she said and with no regard for her modesty, shed the tunic and her dirty smallclothes with it. She sank into the water and sighed as it warmed her chilled bones. “You need me.” 

He handed her soap, then put his hands on his hips as she washed the dirt and grime away. “You were always spirited.” 

She laughed and sank further into the tub. “You mean I've never known my place,” she said, then paused, as if she was considering what to say next. “I have seen battle, Ulfric. It’s not spirit. It’s experience. If you intend to win this war and look good doing it you'll need me.”

Vivyne was not wrong; Ulfric did not think that at all. Her life laid plain in the jagged edges of the scars cutting deep across her face. She knew war as intimately as she might know any friend or lover. It was a foundation for this friendship. Perhaps it would be all that bound them together. He could not say. He only knew that turning away help, especially such skilled help, would be tantamount to surrendering and Ulfric would eat his ax before he ever surrendered.

“All right. If you can handle this, then I might have something for you to do. To see what you're made of.” 

Vivyne looked at him from her wrinkled fingertips and ticked up a white eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Come downstairs and speak to Galmar when you're ready. He'll have everything you need to know.” 

She came down nearly an hour later, dressed in furs and Stormcloak blues with her bright white hair plaited behind her. Ulfric was not there, but the man she assumed to be Galmar was. He leaned over a map with another Nord discussing in hushed whispers what she assumed was her.

“Can we trust her? She’s an elf.” 

“Ulfric does,” Galmar replied but, he did not seem at ease. Letting an elf in - a gray-skin at that - seemed bad for morale. The men would sooner take orders from a sneak thief.

“And if she’s an Imperial spy? What then?” 

Galmar considered this for a moment before he finally noticed Vivyne standing before them. “If you’re quite finish, I’m here for my orders,” she said. Neutral seemed the best way to approach them.

He motioned for her to come closer and tapped a point on the map, dangerously close to a red Imperial flag. “There’s a tower in the Rift. Ulfric means to choke the Imperial supply lines and can do it if we’ve got a contingent garrisoned here.”

Vivyne studied the map quietly. It was strategically sound. The watchtower in question (called Darklight by the look of it) sat neatly just this side of the border between Skyrim and Cyrodiil. “Is it still intact?”

“Aye, our scouts report a need of a few minor repairs. Nothing we can’t handle once we’ve got the men settled.”

“A better question: is it defensible?” It would do them no good to have the tower if the Imperials could waltz in and slaughter them all.

Galmar flashed her a smile. “‘Course, girl. You think I’d put my men there if it wasn’t?”

He dropped a leather pack on the table. Supplies. And he smiled at her. “You’re not afraid of spiders are you?”

“Not particularly, no. Why?” 

“The tower’s full of them. Witches, too.” 

Vivyne looked from the pack to Galmar. The fool Nord behind him smiled too. 

“I’m to do this alone, I gather.”

“Ulfric assures me you can handle it. So handle it.” 

There would be trials. She was well aware there would be. But Ulfric would owe her a drink for this and when she returned she intended to collect with interest.


End file.
